


Bathe My Skin in Water Cool and Cleansing

by runningsissors



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, F/M, Second Wizarding War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:01:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runningsissors/pseuds/runningsissors
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Heroes don’t cry. But he’s not a hero, at least not to her. He’s brave and strong, hopelessly headstrong and daft, and tongue tied and loyal."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bathe My Skin in Water Cool and Cleansing

**Author's Note:**

> Set during DH around _Godric's Hollow_. Title from Death Cab For Cutie's _Soul Meets Body_

She wishes she could follow.

 

She yearns to take his hand in hers and hold it until all the unbearable pain is drained from his eyes. They use to bright, like the grass in the moors she passed everyday on the way to school, when the world was good and whole.

 

She holds him tight, rubs those tiny comforting circles into the hollow of his shoulder blades as he chokes back his sobs.

 

Heroes don’t cry. But he’s not a hero, at least not to her. He’s brave and strong, hopelessly headstrong and daft , and tongue tied and loyal. He's Harry,  he doesn’t leave when it gets tough, doesn’t lash out because it’s the only emotion he can control.

 

That’s someone else.

 

 _You’re all I have,_ he mumbles, the gale of the wind eating at his words. _Just don’t leave me, too. Please, Hermione, I can't do this without you.  
_

 

And if her heart weren't already shattered, she knows it would now.

 

He’s a boy. A boy who’s been through far too much for the seventeen years he’s lived, no _survived_. There’s far too much pain that rumbles though his bones. She can feel it in the air as they sleep, his breath raged and rushed, like waves that crash the shore.

 

And she tries not to drown him in her own pain. But sometimes the tears still come late at night, when she's cold and frustrated the wind howls against their tent. There are things she wants, selfish things: her bed, a cuppa from her mum, a hot bath, and _ronstupidbloodyron_

 

She hands him a glass, her hand shaking when his fingers brush her skin as he accepts.

 

“My mum always gave me water when…” her words catch in her throat, raw and hard to choke down, “…when I was upset or worked up.”

 

“Yeah?” he asks softly, his thumb tracing the rim, hair in his eyes as always.   

 

“Yeah,” she replies, taking his hand and squeezing tight. It’s all she can do.

 


End file.
